


there is a light if you'd follow me there

by pendules



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2140776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendules/pseuds/pendules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-CL final 2014. Lisbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a light if you'd follow me there

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out angstier than I wanted it to be, oops. But happy S/X day! TEN YEARS. It's insane. Oh, and [this S/X 10 year anniversary mix](http://8tracks.com/amicizia/ten-years) is a lot happier, if you're interested. :)

Xabi calls him from a bar after 3am, says, "I don't want to go back to the hotel. Not - not yet."

"Yeah, okay," is all Stevie replies.

*

He's wearing that goddamned medal and he kind of wants to pull him in by it, ask him if it tastes as good as the other one, if it tastes as good as _him_. Still so fucking selfish, even five years after giving him up.

"Hey," he says, and his smile is weird, like he's never seen him before. Not like this, like he's something new and surprising. No one's looked at him quite like that in years, decades.

"Hey," Stevie says back and it's like ten years' worth of _Hello_ s wrapped up in one. It's funny, how one _Goodbye_ can render them all useless.

"Let's walk," he says, like this is the most casual of meetings. Like they're just acquaintances who've bumped into each other, like it's an accident, the way nothing ever has been with them.

"Okay."

*

It feels good, aimless wandering, having no purpose after too much time of having too much of it, always looking forward to something else, always thinking about the future, always having to be that person, the one with the plan, the one everyone follows.

He's just going wherever Xabi goes now, and he's definitely half-drunk and they're probably going to end up lost if they aren't already and how exactly are they going to explain this… Xabi keeps walking though, not saying anything, and as long as he keeps going, Stevie's following him.

He's slowing down now though.

"I''m sorry about - you know," he eventually says, quiet.

Stevie doesn't know. Sorry about the slip, sorry about the league, sorry he wasn't there, sorry he hasn't been there for all the fucking messes of the last couple years, all the dark, dark days, sorry he isn't there to see the sun starting to come out from behind the clouds again.

"Me too. I mean, I know how frustrating it must be."

Xabi nods.

Then he smiles, almost fond, like he's remembering something, something good. Who they once were, maybe.

"What?"

"We're both pathetic."

He stops entirely then, to look at him, and his eyes are dark, and he hasn't been so close to him, hasn't felt this in so long. Can smell the liquor on his breath, can count his eyelashes in the glow of the street lamp. This mad longing, the dark, empty pit in his stomach roiling and calling out for things he wants but can't have, things he feels guilty for wanting at all.

Xabi's drunk but not that drunk; he's sober enough to know this is a bad idea. They've made enough bad decisions though. Maybe they deserve one more.

Xabi's reaching up to touch his neck and he leans into it, his thumb stroking slow ellipses on his jaw. His hand is warm, like the rest of him probably, blood hot and racing, from alcohol, from the fervour of celebration. He brings his own hand up to gently wrap his fingers around Xabi's wrist. Xabi looks at him, suddenly motionless, not worried, just curious. He leaves his hand there for a moment, then brings Xabi's hand to his mouth, presses a kiss against his knuckles, another between his thumb and forefinger.

He lets him go.

Xabi's chest is almost flush against his now but he doesn't move, lets Stevie come to him this time.

He's looking at him questioningly, like, _What do you want, what do you want, just ask for it, I'm right here._

Stevie doesn't know how to begin. The things he wants in this moment are infinite and impossible. He doesn't have the time, the words, the courage.

He has to save them now. Use them on things that can come true.

It's a cruel joke, his life, everything we wants always so, so close in front of him, close enough to touch, but they all slide out of his grasp again and again. And this will too, he knows, but right now, right now it feels enough like one of those rare dreams where he gets to hold on until the end.

Xabi's still waiting and maybe he'd wait on Stevie forever, like Stevie's been waiting. Twenty-four years.

Stevie kisses him like he wants to absorb memories, glory, greatness from his skin. Xabi gives him everything but it's not his to take. It feels all wrong. He's suddenly disgusted with himself because he didn't earn this. Not this night and not Xabi, still giving up everything for him after all this time, even when he doesn't have anything left.

They can't do this. Not like this.

Because Xabi's just won a European Cup and Stevie's been telling people all week how bright the future is looking and it shouldn't be so damn _sad_. He pulls away and Xabi's just staring at him, still so close, but not disappointed, not really.

"When did we get so old and jaded," he says, with a bitter little laugh.

Stevie just shakes his head, turns away a little.

But they're not, not really. They just like to pretend they are. They've always been hopeless romantics, dumb optimists. Because it's been ten years and they're kissing on a pavement in Lisbon, reckless and aching, like they're twenty-five again, standing still, like the world hasn't changed so drastically around them.

"We _are_ pathetic," he agrees.

They should call a taxi, it should be the end, but instead he says, "Wanna go somewhere?" 

Xabi doesn't say anything, just takes his hand and leads him along in the dim orange light. 

They talk about random things - cities they got lost in, the best coffee they ever had at 3am, that time they rode a hotel elevator all the way up and down before dawn just lazily making out. It's strange, the things you do, in foreign cities, jetlagged, awake at odd hours with time to kill. Sometimes he thinks this is where he and Xabi met and will always intersect, in the spaces between the hours of their lives, in faraway corners of the world.

They find an all-night café, and it's empty, and they haven't seen another person on the streets for the last fifteen minutes, and it shouldn't be like this, he thinks. There are parties still going on all over the city but they've found a little pocket of it that's quiet and deserted and maybe, probably just for them. He doesn't ask him, _Why would you want to be alone on a night like this_ , because he knows what his reply would be: _I'm not._ He remembers the last time Xabi was at Anfield, and it was just like this, after, sitting around, not really doing anything in particular, cold and miserable but less so, too. Because he was there; they were together and maybe their arms brushed every few minutes unconsciously. Xabi's always warm, to the touch, and in his mind; that's what he is, a warm, bright spot. Always has been. (He's also something else, something dark and consuming and hidden deep down inside of him.)

*

Xabi says, "Remember -" and it's not like before, when it was a game, when they were passing time with meaningless anecdotes. "Remember the night before?"

And it's strange, because no one asks that, no one's supposed to think about it, the night _before_ the best thing you ever experience. It could be a perfectly fine night but it will always fall away into contrast.

Stevie does though. He remembers Xabi being nervous, then, but only then, not after. Remembers him saying, "I never dreamt - I never thought - But at the same time, it feels like we were always going to be here." And Stevie had nodded, had understood completely. In some other time, some other universe, he would've probably been shitting himself too. But he's kind of scarily calm that night. He convinces himself it's already happened, he's already lived it over and over again, and maybe it goes differently every time, but he'll always find himself right back here. He can always change it. It's right in the palm of his hands.

After, after, Stevie starts babbling something crazy about how he saw it happen, he knew it would happen, and Xabi just tells him to shut up and kisses him.

Xabi, he says, now, nine years to the day since that night, the night no one will remember, "It feels like we were always going to be here."

And it's wonderful and terrible, because they're together, here, now and maybe they will be again but it doesn't last, it's all shattered into disjoint pieces, the time they have. They say a million _Hello_ s but there's always that one _Goodbye_.

He's angry, now, but he can't change it. Can't change anything. There's no other chance. This only happens one way, one time. They're never going to have this moment back. Better make it count then.

"Are you happy?" And Xabi raises his eyebrows over his sip of caramel latte.

"Tonight? Yes." But it's not the answer he's looking for.

"Why'd you call me then?" He's not supposed to ask this question. It's an unspoken rule. He always does though; rules are for people with things to lose. That's not them, not anymore.

"Because you're a part of it. You've always been."

Stevie knows what that's like. It's hard, detaching connections that have fused themselves in his mind years and years ago. It's hard, detaching Xabi from his happiness. It's hard to separate victory from the taste of his lips. Maybe it goes both ways after all.

"We won't always be here," he says, vague. Maybe he means _I won't always be here_ , or _Someday you won't be the first person I reach for, someday I won't be the first number you call_ , someday. _Someday_ 's coming soon but at the same time, it's like a tiny blip in the distance. It's been ten years and maybe it should've come a long time ago. Should've come like a flood and washed all of this away, so that it never happened, so that they were never here to begin with.

"But we are right now." He looks like that's enough. And it is.

*

The awful, selfish part of him doesn't want it to end though. Or maybe he's just pretending he's being awful and selfish, that he's here because the glow of Xabi's skin reminds him of golden nights and shiny, silver Cups. That he's here for ego-stroking, to feel like he's still worth something, that even if his hands are empty now and may remain so, Xabi still sees someone else when he looks at him. Someone who once held the world in the palm of his hand.

The truth is a lot simpler and a lot harder. If it was selfish, then he could walk away.

Xabi sees him for exactly as he is, right now. Always has. He can't pretend. 

And he still looks at him the same way he did when they were young and foolish and believed they could tilt the earth on its axis and actually _did_.

*

Maybe on the phone he'd really meant, "I don't want to go to sleep. I don't want to lose it." _Not this night and not this feeling and I don't want to lose_ you, _not again, not for a few more hours at least._

They drink lots of coffee and eat delicious pastries they're not supposed to have and it's comforting, knowing everyone else is in bed, and probably assume they are too. The world is clean and bare and ripe for discovery. They could be anyone they wanted to be right now. They don't want to be anyone but themselves though.

The light is starting to return to the sky but Xabi's still holding his hand as they cross the street, turn a corner, hiding from the world without having to hide at all.

*

They go to a park and there are the first signs of life coming out, early morning joggers and people taking their dogs out and aging people who start the days earlier and earlier. They're like Xabi, they don't want to lose too much of the little time they have. And no one recognises them because no one's expecting it.

It's the most surreal and most comfortable thing he's ever done. There aren't any of these dreams left now, these alternate worlds, where this could be their life. He doesn't have the time or energy for them anymore. But he can see it. It's right in front of him. And like always, it can't be his.

He drops his hand and Xabi looks at him, surprised, but then he's sitting down on one of the benches, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. Xabi's hand is resting so near to him he can feel the heat radiating from him, but - but no. It's over, the night's over, the moment's gone, just another fragment lost like so many others before it. It has to end. They have to punctuate it with another goodbye.

Xabi's head is on his shoulder now, and his hand's somehow found Stevie's in his pocket.

It's not over. Not yet.

*

"It's not your fault," he tells him, and Stevie knows he's been holding that in since he first saw him tonight, because he knows Stevie won't believe it. Never does.

"You can't always be the saviour," he says, quietly, and it's too much, too hard, it hurts to hear all the truths you can't ever accept.

"I don't know how to be anything else," and it hurts just as much to say it.

"I know, I know." He sounds so, so sorry about that. Like he'd give up bits of his soul if he could to change it.

Stevie's already tried. It doesn't work. There's so much empty space inside him, spaces there shouldn't be, and they're filling up with regret and want and expectation and fear and love and hate and pain and rage and - (in some places, the bright edges of hope). Time is eating away at all of it. There's less and less to fill it up every day; the holes are more and more gaping.

Xabi knows those spaces well. He's built a home for himself within them.

He misses Xabi like a real, live, shadowy thing, wrapped around his heart, suffocating but keeping him warm.

He loves him like pure light exploding at every point in his mind and body at once. He can fill up the universe with it.

*

They're still awake, against all odds, and it's almost time for life to resume. There are schedules and commitments and flights and that elusive goodbye. Maybe he won't say it this time. Maybe they'll pick up right from here, another city, another sleepless night. They can't get this one back but there's - there's so many others out there. He can see the future stretching out before them. And it doesn't belong to them, but the tiny, secret, precious parts can. There's maybe still that ominous day looming over them but he can't see it. Not in this light.

Just - just ten more minutes. Just one morning in May when everything starts to feel possible.

He knows they're both thinking of another morning now, one nine years ago.

It's almost gold now, the sky.

Together, they watch the sun rise.


End file.
